Trouble In Spades Read online

"He loves you," I said, trying to reassure.

  "Then where is he?"

  "Shopping?"

  "He doesn't shop."

  "Canoeing?"

  "Nee-nah!"

  At her wail, I immediately felt contrite. "Listen, Maria, I don't know where he is or what he's doing, but he's going to show up. He loves you too much to ever let you go." A quartet of sniffles echoed across the line.

  "Do you really think so?"

  "I really do."

  "Okay, then. I'll give him until midnight; then I get mad." The echo of her slamming the phone rang in my ear. I hoped Nate got home soon. I didn't know how long Maria could hold her temper in check.

  I snapped my phone closed and looked up to find one of the Stepford men standing in the doorway.

  "The door was open," he said. "I didn't mean to eavesdrop."

  "It's okay. Just my sister."

  "Sounded serious." Across from me, a chair groaned as he sat. "Someone's missing?"

  I smiled to ease the concern in his gray-green eyes. "Temporarily misplaced." Picking up a pen, I wondered what Nate was doing, where he was. This just wasn't like him, and I couldn't help but worry a little. I'm a worrier by nature.

  I reached across the desk. "I'm Nina Quinn."

  His handshake was firm, unlike the other men who had been in.

  "Leo Barker."

  Little ink spots dotted my blotter as I tapped my pen. "So, Leo, what kind of landscaping experience do you have?" I steeled myself for the usual, "None."

  "I worked for Decker and Sons all through college."

  My pen stilled. I sized him up. Truth was, he wasn't as Stepford as the others. There was a little bulk to his arms, his shoulders, underneath the blue button-down he wore. Alleluia! There might be some hope yet.

  "What did you do for old man Decker?"

  "Grunt work, mostly." He smiled wickedly. "I'm killer with a spade."

  I laughed. "Good to know." Flipping through his paperwork, I added, "But college was a long time ago." Fifteen years, if his résumé was up-to-date.

  "I've got twenty acres of land in Lebanon. I like to play farmer on weekends. I'm still in shape, if that's what you're wondering."

  I could see that now as I took a closer look. Energy surrounded him, and even though he was leaning back in the chair, he looked as though he could pounce at any second. It would have been unnerving if not for his crinkly I'm-afriendly-guy smile.

  "If you're interested," I said, "and provided your references check out, I'll start you off part-time, see how you fit in. If you fit well, then I'll bump you up to full-time."

  "That include benefits?"

  "Yep. All the bells and whistles."

  After haggling a bit about a starting wage, we shook hands. "Let's plan on you starting tomorrow," I said. "That's assuming, of course, that your references pan out." I'd have Tam check them right away. He grinned. "Of course. I'll be here."

  After he left, Tam scurried in. "I'm glad to see them go. Should I put an ad in the classifieds?"

  "I hired that last one—Leo Barker."

  "What!?" Her tight curls bounced as she stepped back, hand on her heart. "He was the scariest of them all. He's the winker!"

  I was surprised by her reaction. "He's qualified."

  "He's trouble."

  I hesitated at her adamancy. Tam was a good judge of character, where I—well . . . I wasn't. Had she possibly seen something I hadn't?

  "He's starting off part-time. Just give him a chance."

  She made the sign of the cross. "Call him back and rescind your offer." Picking up the phone on my desk, she added, "I'll dial."

  I wrested the receiver from her death grip. "What is it about him you don't like?"

  She shuddered. "I don't know. There's just . . . something."

  "It'll be fine."

  "Oh, Nina. I don't like this at all. Not one bit." She backtracked out of my office, closed the door behind her. Slumping back in my chair, I flipped through Leo Barker's résumé. Thirty-five. Went to college at the University of Cincinnati. Worked—or used to work—at Procter & Gamble. I straightened.

  P&G? The other Stepford men hadn't worked for them.

  Further rummaging through his résumé left me with more questions. He'd never been arrested, according to the box he'd left blank.

  Which meant he'd never been on probation.

  So, if Ana hadn't sent him . . . who had?

  Three

  As usual, I was late picking up Riley. I'd never cut it as a professional chauffeur—and was failing miserably as Riley's. Punctuality really wasn't one of my strong points. Something Riley had apparently picked up from me, since he wasn't outside when I pulled up in front of my house. I honked.

  My modest bungalow-style house sat in Freedom, Ohio—a growing suburb wedged between Cincinnati and Dayton. Unlike the booming developments in this area, my neighborhood had been long settled, and was appropriately nicknamed the "Mill." As in "gossip mill." The median age of residents around here averaged sixty-five.

  I'd inherited my house from my aunt Chi-Chi right after I met Kevin. I loved living here even though everyone knew everything about everyone.

  In my sideview mirror I saw Flash Leonard hobbling across the street, his tattered robe flapping.

  Flash, like Nate, used to be a baseball player, but only made it semi-pro. He'd gotten the nickname because batters used to say his fastball went by in a flash. Nowadays, the name fit because, with his robe hanging open, he was always flashing people. I'd yet to figure out if it was intentional or not. I lowered my window as he got closer.

  "Nina," he said to me, once he reached my truck. "Hey, Flash."

  I caught movement in my rearview mirror. Mr. and Mrs. Mustard shuffled up the driveway. Around here, Jacob Mustard was known affectionately as the "Colonel," not because of his WWII decorations, but because no one could resist the reference to Clue, my favorite board game. It was rumored that he and his wife, Margaret, had separate bedrooms—and speculation was high as to why. Right now neighborhood polls favored his snoring over her insomnia. Mrs. Mustard crowded Flash in my window. She was small, with frizzy gray hair, a sweet smile, and a big heart. "Did Flash tell you?"

  "I didn't get the chance," Flash complained. "What?" I said.

  The Colonel nudged his head in. Which wasn't hard. He was taller than both of them, even with the slight bend in his back. His hair was a mousy brown sprinkled with silver. His brown eyes narrowed, the wrinkles surrounding them nearly swallowing them whole. "Mrs. Offel."

  I'd always called her "Mrs. Awful." She was a nasty old bat. "What about her?"

  "Someone broke into her house last night."

  "Another break-in!?" I'd lost count as to how many this made. Definitely double digits.

  "He got away," Flash said, smoothing back the lock of salt and pepper (more salt than pepper) hair that always fell onto his forehead. "Again."

  Out of the corner of my eye I saw Mrs. Daasch walking her dog, Loofa. Mrs. Carmichael and Miss Maisie flanked her. If I didn't get out of here soon I'd be surrounded. Thankfully, I saw Riley come around the corner, chatting with my nosy neighbor Mr. Cabrera. When Mr. Cabrera spotted me, he practically sprinted over, elbowing everyone else out of the way, and then shooed them off.

  Uh-oh. When Mr. Cabrera shooed, he had something serious on his mind. I called out my good-byes as everyone wandered away.

  "Miz Quinn," Mr. Cabrera said. We'd been neighbors for eight years. He'd yet to call me Nina. I doubted he ever would.

  I braced myself for a battery of the usual questions. His notorious talent for procuring gossip had earned him the head seat at the Mill's weekly cribbage game. He wanted to keep it. "Mr. Cabrera."

  "Fine day," he said.

  "Beautiful."

  Riley hopped into the passenger seat, buckled his seat belt. No hello, not that I had expected one.

  Mr. Cabrera shifted foot to foot. I braced myself for a full-blown interrogation on my separation from Kevin,
our divorce plans, and was surprised when he said, "I don't suppose you've heard about Ursula?"

  I gasped. "She didn't . . ." My voice dropped. "You know . . ."

  With a click of his dentures, Mr. Cabrera's jaw set. "Not that I know of."

  "Sorry." I winced. "Bad habit."

  I'd played matchmaker for Mr. Cabrera and Ursula Krauss, aka Brickhouse Krauss, a month ago. Once upon a time Mrs. Krauss had been my evil English Lit teacher. I'd recently been reacquainted with her through my job—her daughter had hired TBS to do a mini makeover at her mother's landominium, which was basically a condo with a yard. And I kinda-sorta forgot to mention to Brickhouse that Mr. Cabrera's lady friends had a nasty habit of up and dying while dating him.

  His fuzzy white eyebrows dipped. "She broke up with me. It's been two days now."

  "She hear the rumors?"

  Riley leaned in. "I'm late."

  Mr. Cabrera went right on talking. "Let's face it, Miz Quinn, they're not rumors. I'm jinxed. It's just as well my dear sweet Ursula dumped me. I wouldn't want to see anything happen to her."

  I was struggling with the usage of "dear" and "sweet" in any context related to Mrs. Krauss. She was as cranky as they came. Still, I felt bad for Mr. Cabrera. He'd really fallen hard for the old battle-axe.

  Mr. Cabrera thumped the window frame. "I said, I really miss her."

  Cringing as the words slipped out of my mouth, I asked, "Do you want me to call her?"

  "Late," Riley singsonged.

  "Would you?" Mr. Cabrera's bright blue eyes widened. His whole face lit.

  I let out a sigh. "I'm not promising anything, but I'll call."

  The seat belt strained as Riley leaned over, held his hand out, palm up. Mr. Cabrera dropped a five dollar bill into it. My head jerked between the two of them. "What's going on?"

  Riley pocketed the money. "I told him you'd do it. He didn't think you would. So we bet on it."

  "Mr. Cabrera! How could you?"

  His eyebrows danced. "Best money I ever spent."

  I looked to Riley. He was smirking. "It was easy money," he said. "You're gullible."

  Hmmph.

  I shoved the truck into reverse and shot out of the driveway. We drove in silence for a little bit before I glanced at Riley. "Am I really that gullible?"

  "Yes."

  There went the kick-ass Rambette image I had of myself. "When are you going to get a new car?" he asked.

  My old Toyota had recently gone to the big junkyard in the sky after a mishap with an oncoming train. Luckily, I'd escaped with just a few scars and a broken pinkie. "My insurance check is due any day now. Why?" "I can get my permit soon."

  Oh, God. Riley on the roads. Maybe I'd hold on to that insurance check for a while.

  "How's the job?" I asked, quickly changing the subject. He'd recently gotten a job bagging groceries at a local supermarket.

  "Fine."

  If it was up to me, he wouldn't be working at all. I'd keep him home, where I could keep an eye on him, keep him safe, which was a laugh since it seemed I had trouble keeping myself safe lately. But his therapist recommended he get a job to occupy his time, to keep his mind off the fact that a couple of weeks ago he'd been willing to shoot someone to protect me. A someone who was certifiable and trying to kill me at the time. It didn't matter that he hadn't actually harmed anyone—it was still weighing on his mind.

  The doctor also told Kevin and me that Riley needed to work through his problems his own way. But it was hard not to interfere when I could see how much he was hurting. I met Riley when he was eight. He'd been angry with the world for taking his mom, who had died when he was a toddler in a mysterious boating accident that no one liked to talk about. We've had our ups and downs, but I felt that I was finally getting the hang of this mothering thing. I just hoped I didn't screw it up somehow.

  The silence in the car was driving me nuts. I turned on the radio, flipped to the Oldies channel. I was an Oldies junkie. "Just shoot me," Riley mumbled.

  I was just about to launch into the talents of Del Shannon when I realized what Riley had said. Just shoot me. And he had been kidding. He must be farther along in his therapy than I imagined if he could joke about shooting anything. I smiled.

  "The new job seems to be keeping you out late," I ventured, trying to ease into my, "Where have you been at night?" lecture.

  "Have you ever bagged people's groceries?" he asked.

  I caught how he'd expertly steered me away from my planned speech. I let it go for now because so rarely did he open up a topic of conversation.

  "Uh, no."

  "Do you know how often I have to say 'paper or plastic?' "

  "Not really."

  "Not to mention the little old ladies who want the paper in the plastic," he said, groaning. "Besides, nothing exciting ever happens there. I think I need a new job."

  He cracked the window and the wind tousled his hair. He'd let it grow and had, thank God above, gotten rid of the dyed black with bleached stripes. Now it was platinum blond. Still bad, but tolerable. "Excitement is overrated."

  "To you maybe," he said, still looking out the window. "And what's that supposed to mean?"

  "It means you're old," he said, a hint of a smile lifting his cheek. "Old people don't like excitement."

  Slapping my head, I said, "I must have forgotten. Chalk it up to having a senior moment."

  He smiled. Riley actually smiled. Miracle of miracles.

  "Oh," he said. "I forgot to tell you that Grandma Cel called."

  "And?"

  "And she said to tell you that your uncle Giuseppe and aunt Carlotta are flying in early for the wedding."

  "And?" I repeated, already dreading what was coming next.

  "She's sending them to stay with us, since she doesn't have the room. They'll be here Friday night." I nearly choked. Just shoot me.

  "Maria hates me."

  My mother's voice floated over the dressing room door. "She most certainly does not."

  "She might," my cousin Ana piped in.

  I heard a muted ugh and figured my mother had elbowed Ana.

  I slid the latch on the door and stepped out, heading toward the full-length mirror.

  My mother and Ana stepped up behind me, each of our reflections taking up one section of the trifold mirror. We all wore the same horrified expression.

  My mother brought a quavering manicured hand to cover her mouth.

  To keep from laughing, Ana was biting her lip so hard tears slipped from the corner of her eyes.

  "Ana, chérie, this isn't amusing," my mother chastised. My mother called everyone "chérie." It was her way of reminding people that she had been born in France and had class.

  I blinked at my reflection. Maria was out of her mind.

  Plumb crazy. Demented. Loco. Utterly, thoroughly delusional. I closed my eyes trying to come up with more adjectives, but came up empty. Trauma must be setting in. Opening my eyes, I found my reflection hadn't changed. I turned to Ana. "You could have warned me."

  Wiping moisture from the corners of her eyes, she snuffled. "I did." Reluctantly, I remembered she had.

  I turned to my mother for her reaction. It was unlike Celeste Madeline Chambeau Ceceri to keep quiet for so long. She always had something to say, even when I didn't want to hear it—which was often. "Mom?"

  She stared into the trifold mirror, mouth agape, her bright blue eyes wide.

  I followed her doe-in-the-headlights gaze back to the mirror. Shifting my weight, I hoped to blur the horrifying image. No blurrage, just the billowing of the dress's full skirt—a dizzying palette of shimmery green and toad brown.

  My mother finally found her voice. "I think you look . . ." She swallowed audibly. "Interesting."

  Oh God. When my mother couldn't find something nice to say, then I knew it was bad. Very, very bad.

  "I'm going to need a new dress." I stepped off the platform, simultaneously reaching for the row of lime green pearls that marched down my chest.


  Ana leaned against the mirror, wiping away streaks of mascara from her eyes as my mother said, "Out of the question. There's not enough time."

  I stood firm. "I am not wearing this . . . this . . ." I couldn't even say the word "dress." It looked more like the result of an ice cream truck crashing into an army fatigue factory. ". . . thing," I finished.

  "It's not so bad," Ana said, a twinkle in her dark eyes.

  "Hmmph."

  My mother's hands flew as she spoke. "The dress, perhaps, needs some tailoring, is all. It's haute couture, you know."

  "Don't care. Not wearing it," I said, slamming the dressing room door behind me. I worked the pearl buttons loose. Sliding the dress over my shoulders, I let it puddle around my feet, kicked it into the corner for good measure. Pulling my T-shirt over my head, I said, "We need to find another dress."